The Final Sacrifice
“Mum, we need to talk.”
“What an ominous start,” Irene said, eyeing her son with unease.
Handsome, clever—he’d always been such a good boy, never gave her a moment’s trouble. Then, in Year 12, he fell in love for the first time. Started skipping school, getting poor marks. She tried reasoning with him, but the girl—Emily—had no interest. She fancied another lad, one whose parents had money.
No matter how Irene insisted that first love was pure, untouched by wealth or status, that it wasn’t about the other boy’s family—only that Emily simply loved someone else—her son wouldn’t listen. He’d convinced himself if they’d had cash, a flash car, she’d have chosen him instead.
He took the rejection so bitterly Irene feared for him. She found a therapist, someone to talk sense into him, man to man. It worked. He scraped through his A-levels, got into uni. And, of course, fell in love again.
Near the end of first year, he announced he wanted to move out. “Half the lads in halls have their own flats. I want my own place too. Be independent.”
“And how will you pay for it? Rent’s steep. I can’t help you—you know what I earn. You’re eighteen; your father’s child support’s stopped. Unless you’re planning to drop out, switch to part-time?”
“I spoke to Dad. He said he’d help, just at first.”
“You spoke to him? Saw him? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’d talk me out of it. You divorced him, not me,” Oliver shot back.
“Did he tell you he changed jobs right after the split? Made sure his official salary dropped so the child support would too. He walked out on both of us. You really think he won’t swindle you? I doubt his help’s free. A month, two—then he’ll find an excuse to stop. Then what? He’s got a daughter now. Or are Emily’s parents chipping in?”
Her mother’s instinct told her he was holding back. She pressed until he cracked.
“I told Emily the flat was mine—inherited from Nan, Dad’s mum. No rent to pay,” he admitted.
“So you lied. Her parents won’t help? How will you live?”
“Emily hasn’t told them we’re moving in. They’re strict. They send her an allowance—it’ll cover us.”
“So she’s lying too. Not brave enough to tell them the truth, but happy to live off someone else’s money? Let me guess—you told her your dad’s loaded, so she wouldn’t pick a richer bloke? But the lie’ll come out. Then what?”
“Yeah, I said Dad’s minted, that I’ve got a flat. What else could I do? Money’s all that matters. And we’ve got none. Girls’ll always pick someone else. By the time I’ve got any, I’ll be old.” He glared, furious she couldn’t see the obvious.
“Starting life with a lie’s rotten. Tell her the truth. If she loves you, she’ll understand—”
“Enough, Mum. I’ve decided. I’m getting the flat. Shouldn’t have told you. We’re not getting married. If it doesn’t work, we’ll split. You’re making a fuss over nothing.”
Irene didn’t sleep. Come morning, she tried again—but he snapped, stormed off without breakfast. When she got home from work, some of his things were gone. She stood frozen, winded. Her Ollie, her sweet, tender boy—gone like a thief, no goodbye.
She rang him late that night. Loud music drowned his voice—some celebration, no doubt. All she caught was him saying he’d feared her tears, her pleading. He was sorry. A small relief.
Lost, she paced the flat, then rang her friends for comfort or sense. One said it was maternal jealousy—she had to let go. The other had no such trouble; her husband hadn’t let their daughter stray.
Her own mother blamed her. “You spoiled him, gave him everything, denied yourself. Now look. Could’ve remarried if you’d dressed sharper.”
They were right. Irene didn’t deny it. But what else could she have done? She’d have died for him. His peace, his happiness meant more than anything. He was the only man she needed.
She stood at a crossroads, paths lined with warnings. Straight on—disaster. Left—lose her son. Right—no matter the choice, loss waited.
Exhausted, she gave up. Oliver was her boy. She’d love him, however he was. Hope was all she had left.
At first, she rang often, asking after him. He bristled, said he was fine, to stop nagging. Made excuses, hung up.
He visited while she was out—she knew by the missing food, the rummaged wardrobe. After two months, he came on a weekend. Her heart sank before he spoke. He was gaunt, hollow-eyed, his shirt creased and worn. She fed him; he ate like a starved thing.
She packed him off with the fridge’s contents, biting back questions. He confessed anyway. Dad had cut him off—no surprise.
“Mum, Nan lives alone. You could move in with her, and we could have one of your places.”
“Call her old to her face and see what happens. She’s only sixty-five. But it’s not just money, is it?”
“No. Emily’s pregnant.”
“You didn’t use protection?”
“She says the pill’s bad for you. I talked to Nan. She’s fine with it.”
“So you’ve decided already. Talk to your dad, Nan—then tell me. Have I ever refused you? Which flat do you want?”
Rage and hurt surged. Just as she’d feared—his mess, her burden.
“Don’t start! Emily says Nan’s place is tiny, shabby. Bad for a baby. You’d be better off together.”
She choked down fury. Wanted to shake him, scream. Instead, she said she’d think.
Alone, she wandered the flat. Her home. How could she leave? Move in with Mum—give up control. But had she ever had any?
She’d spoiled him. Her fault. Her endless love had brought neither of them joy.
Her mother rang, unimpressed but resigned. “Made space in the wardrobe. I’ll keep the telly room. You can have your old one back.”
Irene didn’t argue. No point. They’d decided for her.
She wept, then steadied. What had happened, really? She was moving in with her mother. Losing freedom, yes—but Ollie wouldn’t have hatched this alone. His father’s hand, no doubt.
Once moved, she felt lighter. She’d given him everything—even the flat. Nothing left to take. Her last sacrifice. Now, maybe, he’d leave her be. No more begging for money, for favours.
Only then did she grasp the truth. *Emily says, Emily wants*—why was *she* the one sacrificing? What about Emily’s parents? Still in the dark about their daughter’s life? Strange, that.
She decided to learn more. Why hadn’t they visited? She rang a friend’s contact in the police, asked for help. Posing as a community officer, he dropped by the young couple’s—complaints about noise, he said. Checked IDs, noted Emily’s registered address, then visited her parents out of town.
He reported back: divorced. Mother remarried, living with her new husband. Only the father remained in the old flat—drinking, naturally. “Emily’s clever,” he’d said. “She’ll manage.”
So that was that. Her digging changed nothing. Oliver was in love, Emily pregnant. Start a war, and she’d lose him for good. She could only wait.
Time passed. Six months later, a granddaughter—Daisy. They married just before the birth. Irene and her mother visited the hospital, then the flat—*her* flat—for the first time as guests.
The mess shocked her. Oliver muttered excuses. Emily seemed oblivious. Once, Irene would’ve rolled up her sleeves. Now, she left fast, dragging her mother with her.
She offered no help. Let them cope.
Her mother called her heartless. Oliver visited more often, stayed over. Gaunter, wolfing down food. The baby wailed; he looked wrecked. Close to dropping out, she guessed.
He admitted things had soured since Daisy’s birth. Emily demanded more—money, help. Constant rows.
“I can’t take it,” he said.
She pitied him. But what could she do? She had nothing left.
One day, he announced the split.
“Mum, Emily says the law’s on her side. She won’t agree unless we sell the flat and split the cash. Otherwise, IShe smiled faintly and shook her head, knowing at last that some bridges could never be unburned.
